Preludio
by Swamy
Summary: Post season 4 finale. Bonnie watches her friends trying to make peace with her absence, and one not trying at all. [cover by alla-matta]
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** _where I live they say that God grants to those passed away forty days on earth, so that they can say goodbye to their loved ones…_

###

She always liked the last light of a dying day; it's a liquid, orange color - so warm, so vibrant - that turns into gold everything it touches. She will not turn into gold, though; in fact she will not turn into anything but dust.

Her headstone is made of night-rose granite with a carved white rose on the side. The engraving farewell says _Bonnie Bennett, August 14, 1995 – May 9, 2013, Loving daughter, Best friend, Forever our Halo._

She had watched as her dad picked it from a slick catalogue, his eyes red, his head low, the tip of his nose still wet from the last tear that had rolled down, as the clerk informed him that the regular price for that item was $2,231,00 but they were having a discount and so they could give it to him for only $1,876,00.

Her dad had looked at the man with a confused face like he couldn't understand what that really meant – he was buying a headstone for his teenaged only daughter, he had trouble enough understanding that concept to be able to do anything else.

_Men can only do one thing at time_, her gram always said with a comforting smile when her dad failed at keeping his promise to show up at her school recitals. He was so busy with work, with what he thought he was meant to do, and she had hoped and hoped and hoped for a little of his time, for a few words that could make it all right. Now she has no time anymore and he's left alone with all the words he never said to her.

Bonnie knows he was seeing those words as he stared at his empty hands during the visitation. She had stared at them too, wishing she could hold them and tell him it was going to be alright, even if probably wouldn't.

The people around her, whispering _she was so young _and _I heard she was using drugs and overdosed, _made her nauseous, the ones crying made her claustrophobic, even if breathing is not an issue anymore. And she couldn't take it.

It's pretty much everyone's fantasy, to watch their own funeral to find out who really cares about them, how the world would react to their absence. She got to live that fantasy, lucky her.

Bonnie had watched the quiet, elegant crowd gathering around her coffin as she stayed distant to not catch Jeremy's eyes.

It had been so hard to stay away from the only person that can still see and hear her – the only person that can still give her the illusion of being alive. But it would be a pointless torture for both of them, and the sooner he can come to terms with her absence, the sooner he'll find his way back to happiness. Moreover, she decided she can't give herself that, can't give herself the hope that there's still a chance for her, a chance for years and love and memories to fill a life with, so she stood there, watching her own funeral, her young body getting buried, Caroline's make-up melting down, Elena holding Jeremy like he was the last rope to tie her to sanity, Stefan's face twisted into an expression she could not decipher, Matt crying silently and holding his jaw to a point she feared he was going to break it.

And now that there are only the footsteps on the freshly turned over earth and her shiny headstone to keep her company, she waits. For the night to come, for her forty days to be over, because it turns out, life might end but people can never stop waiting.

If she concentrates really hard she can almost catch the smell of the fresh flowers on her grave, can feel the incision on the granite on her fingertips as she traces the elegant characters. She bitterly smiles letting her mind be tricked by the strength of her oh, so very human instinct to remain tied to life.

She's got her forty days to say her goodbyes, make sure people she loved know what she feels for them. Forty days to accept that this is not going to be her life anymore. Forty days to feel her senses slip away, her third eye opened up to stare the naked, eternal truth in the eye and be part of it. And sometimes she almost can't tell how many of them have already passed, because nothing in her can grasp time anymore.

Bonnie kneels on her grave, lowers her head pushing back her hair - like they could really fall on the wet flowers and get dirty – and tries to smell the scent that must surrender the place where her body lies.

"Girls always love to get flowers," he says, making her turn around with wide eyes, "But if that's what you wanted, you've gone a bit too far."

For a moment she feels so relieved, like against every odd she's been _found, _in a world out of reach, in a place out of time, and she thinks she's about to be pulled in again, but Damon is staring through her.

He's looking at her grave with a petulant expression as he holds the neck of a half empty bourbon bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

She crosses her arms under her breast and gives him a challenging look.

"What are you doing here, Damon?" she asks, even if he can't hear her. Force of habit.

"Thanks to you my house has become a center for grief counseling. They cry and whine all day long and I don't like my drink watered down, so right now you're the better company-"

"Like my fate wasn't bad enough," she mutters to herself.

"Congratulations, little witch," and he raises the bottle mimicking a toast.

Damon takes a step towards her headstone and she takes a step back, fearing he'll _touch_ her. Stupid, huh?

He puts the glass on top of the dark granite and fills it up with the golden liquid as the sun disappears.

His pale, translucent skin appears whiter than usual. He looks so seraphic in this moment – "I drink to you and your _brilliant_ plan to go and die at nineteen. Well done." - and more an ass than ever.

He sits down, puts the other glass aside and forgets it, drinking directly from the bottle. She sits too, resting with her back against the headstone, feeling the carved flower tickle her a bit, in the back of her mind she still wonders is it's only a trick of her mind or the very last alive part of her that didn't leave her yet.

They are right in front of each other and for a moment she could swear he's looking at her straight in the eyes. It makes her feel slightly tense, and she pulls at the fabric of her dress to cover her legs, like he could really watch underneath the hem at her naked skin. She's going to wear this damn dress forever, and she already hates it.

Bonnie can't quite understand Damon's presence there. She remembers when they found her body. She remembers watching Jeremy cradling her, and Elena crying on her knees. She remembers Damon's stark face as he stayed behind and spitted "Idiot."

Well, it's not like she had expected him to cry, but she thought he would have least had the decency to show her some respect, instead Elena had not found in him an ounce of understanding or support. He had lamented that such stupidity could not be missed and had left her to deal with her loss on her own.

He didn't even show up for her funeral.

"So what now?" he asks, "You only had one life to offer your country. And your ex-boyfriend, and the guy that collects empty cans on River Road. Such a heroine you are. Jeremy is going to cry over you for the rest of his life. Or probably for about two months, before a new chick flashes him her pink panties."

"You're not funny," she says, trying her best not to get angry. It's not like it will do her any good.

"You're not funny," he accuses her. Cutting smile in place, icy eyes shining as it gets darker around them. Damon looks away and takes another gulp of bourbon.

"So eager to sacrifice yourself on the altar of goodness," he says, sarcastically, chanting the words like he's reciting Shakespeare – straight back, chest out, head high. "The monolithic girl that rose above the world's baseness. So righteous, so _untouchable_," he says with a voice touched by a low vibration, like the one that comes from pounded metal, "Was your life that meaningless?" he asks, his voice suddenly a whisper, his pose slowly falling to a slumped figure.

_If you could envision  
The meaning of a tragedy  
You might be  
Surprised to hear it's you and me_

Bonnie is fascinated by his sad blue eyes. His grin doesn't match them anymore. Suddenly he looks like a puzzle with a wrong piece.

"Forever our halo, ah" he says, with a derisive tone, "Do you know when you get to be forever something? When you actually get to live forever. All the rest is a pile of crap, honey," he says, drinking more.

"Are we at the terms of endearment now?" she asks, titling her head to the side, like in this position she can better see whatever it is he's showing right now.

"Always so full of shit. Would it have killed you to ask for help?" he's clearly irritated, "Now, because of you I'm kicked out of my own house and I'm stuck with a depressed girlfriend," he laments, "Not that she was so entertaining before."

"I feel your pain," she says sarcastically, patiently watching his childish complaints. He's probably not getting laid, the poor thing – well, welcome to the club.

_When it comes down to it  
You never made the most of it  
So I cried, cried, cried  
And now I say goodbye_

"So, you're really not coming back?" he asks, suddenly sobered up, "Because I'm telling you, right now it would be a great moment to take it all back. If you do it later on it could be anticlimactic, and decomposition is quite the bitch. So they tell me, anyway," he adds with a shrug.

Damon blinks, looks through her, stares for so long that she can't move, pinned there, with her back on her engraved name.

"Com'on Bonnie," he says, like he's willing her to dig her way out of the coffin like it usually happened in those old horror movies. He so rarely uses her name that she feels uneasy.

"I'm not going to beg you," he adds, with a hardly warning tone.

"I'm really not coming back," she melancholically says, looking down, spelling the words like she's telling them to herself.

"I fucking hate you," he says, startling her, letting himself fall back on the grass, looking up at the first stars in the darkening sky.

_And I won't be made a fool of...  
Don't call this love_

"Damon…" she calls his name but he doesn't move, so she kneels, crawling up to him. His face is blank, his eyes are distant, and she watches his long, black lashes, tempted to count them all, so that at least she'll get to know something certain about him. After all, he seems to get a kick out of taking away her certainty.

"I'm not coming back," she says, her face above his, her hair falling on one side like a curtain that shelters them both from prying eyes, "Do you care?" she asks, astonished by the ridiculous idea.

He sighs, rolling his eyes, turning his head to the side, avoiding her inquisitive look even though he is not trying to, in the first place.

"You're so not funny," he only says, tired.

Bonnie sits on her heels and then gives up on understanding him. It's not like it will change a thing, after all.

She lies down on the grass, next to him, looking up. The sky is so big and she can't help but wonder if she'll get lost in it when her time is over.

#

**Note:** the song used in this chapter is "The Tragedy" by Christina Perri. I wrote this in a moment when I could borrow a pc, since mine is broken, I'll see you again with more once I have new one or when I can borrow one again.


	2. Chapter 2

_Note:_ I was able to put my hands on a pc and write this little installment for _Preludio_. I hope you'll like it. The song I used in this chapter is "_Lost cause_" by Imagine Dragon.

#

When she was a child she loved a wood carillon with a pretty ballerina dancing in the middle. Her tutu gown was made from a blue veil and she liked the feeling of the fabric under the skin of her finger. The box had painted stars on it and because they glowed in the dark she thought it was magic.

When it stopped working and no music came from it anymore her dad had tried fixing it, only managing to make the damage unfixable. He had thrown the music box away so that she was not reminded of what she had lost. Her mother had left three months ago, already.

Now, sitting in the dark in her father's bedroom, as she watches him sleep, she can't find anything significant to say, no wise words to light up his path, nothing that would make sense; words do not come, but that old welsh tune does, and she finds herself humming it.

Her voice is a whisper. It weakly carries the few words she faintly remembers. _I my loving vigil keeping, all through the night._ She must bite her lower lip to stop herself from crying and when her dad calls her name in his sleep she can barely keep it together.

"Yes, dad, I'm here," she says, "I'm always here."

Her dad will find peace when he wakes up, he'll know deep in his heart that she is still there with him and, in time, it won't hurt that much.

_Oh, dig my shallow grave  
It's not me you'll save  
'Cause I'm a lost cause  
_

Bonnie curls up in a ball, on the chair where she sits. Hides her face, muffles the helpless sounds she makes against her will.

She's a trembling mess and a ghost and it's not even half the story, is it? Her breathing is labored and she can feel a weight on her chest. It suddenly hits her that those words should be for her and not _from_ her. Why is it always her that fights and sacrifices the most? Why is it her that waits to disappear from this world, from the life that awaited her? And yet, she made the choice, and maybe she would make it all over again if given the chance. After all, she's been abandoned enough times to know how it feels, to loathe the very idea of being the one causing that pain, to be unable to turn her back on something when she knows she can change things.

_I'm a lost cause  
A lost, lost cause_

There's a little voice, sarcastically male, speaking in the back of her mind, asking her, "_you're still scared it won't be enough, aren't you?"_ It's annoying and suffocating, and for a moment she wants to take it all back, if only to deny him the satisfaction of knowing the truth, that it's not only nobility that brought her here. She wants to go back, and be seen and be held.

Bonnie doesn't know how exactly this thing works, but she wishes for it so hard that she finds herself in Jeremy's room. She's ready to wake him up and tell him that she's still here, that she wants to come back, and yet, at what price?

He sleeps soundly, his face is tired and she knows she would only put guilt on his back. She longs for the sound of his voice, for his clean eyes on her, but he sleeps. Jeremy sleeps when all she wants in the world is someone to be awake for her, someone to tell her that they are _still here, always here_.

_Wait, no one said what's lost cannot be found  
You are here to make it safe and sound_

She wants to scream, she wants the world to see and feel the hole she left, and be as desperate as she is. She feels so selfish, because a tiny part of her needs the pain of her friends, needs to know she was part of something and she still is.

But truth is, they are going to forget her, sooner than later. They all are survivors, and survivors are bound to leave behind burdens that can slow them down. Only a few days ago she was the town witch, their secret weapon, the one that ensured their survival, but now she is a liability. They are going to forget her, sooner than later. After all, she felt forgotten so many times, long before she was a corpse in a pretty dress.

Bonnie wants to hold on to this life with all her might, with the bare hands that tremble in front of her eyes, but will her friends hold on to her as strongly? She doesn't want disappointment to be the last strong emotion she feels before she leaves, and she fears the pressing of that feeling against her heart.

_Oh we, can make it, out alive  
Fate, hath its way when all that's learned is sin_

Bonnie walks away from Jeremy, from his closed eyes, from his too-often wandering heart. She deludes herself she can breathe better away from him, when she can't breathe, period.

Outside his room, leaning with her back against the wall of the hallways she tries to muster her courage, her strength. It's like looking for a switch in the dark when you don't know the room you're locked into.

_Nothing really matters in the end,  
As long, as you, are with me, friend_

The dark lights up briefly at the end of the hallway. Damon comes out from his room, closing the door behind him. She can see his defined chest from his open black shirt. His pants are unbuttoned and his zip is halfway down.

She's so dazed by the sudden change of situation that she realizes too late where her eyes have fallen, where she's openly staring. The muscles of his abdomen are lean, his stomach is flat and strong, she can see the tension in them as they lead to the perfect chiseling of his pelvis, a glimpse of his sex, half hard and tucked inside his dark jeans.

She jumps and covers her mouth with both hands, crying out "Oh my God!"

She doesn't know where to hide her eyes, cursing inside her head at his awful timing, at his fucking uncaring attitude that makes him walk around the house half naked (nevermind that the place is his and she's not _exactly_ there), at how easily she can be embarrassed before she remembers that he can't actually see her.

Bonnie calms herself down, as he walks towards her. Her embarrassment drops considerably and yet she's uncomfortable, excited by having suddenly something to focus her attention on other than the disgraced fate she picked for herself. For once, Damon can be stalked. Maybe she can give him a taste of his own medicine. Who knows?

The idea makes her grin, until he stops in front of her.

His blue eyes are on hers, if she had a real heart it would go racing right now. Damon licks his lips, and once again for a short moment she finds herself wondering if he can see her, or feel her presence, if the tension in the air is just a product of her imagination.

"This has got to stop," he says, his tone lazy and yet dark, like the sound of a frustrated lover.

"Headache?" she ask ironically, annoyed by the thought that her body is hardly cold and they are already going at it.

"You need to get out of my head," he decides and then walks past her, fixing his jeans.

She blinks, surprised by his words. Lately, surprising her it's all he seems to do. Following him comes instinctively. "Wait!" she says. "What does that mean?" she asks as she follows him down the stairs and inside the living room.

Of course, he doesn't answer, and out of frustration she tries to grab his shoulder. For one single instant a shiver shakes her. It's like electricity is flowing through her and it makes her breathless.

_Oh, dig my shallow grave  
It's not me you'll save  
'Cause I'm a lost cause_

Bonnie sees him turning around startled, his blue eyes searching around the room for the trace of an intruder until he asks, tentatively, "Judgy?" like he's ready to call himself crazy for that thought.

"Yes, it's me," she says. "Can you feel me?"

But he gives no answer as he looks at the open window and sighs.

"Why don't they put up a welcome banner too? I'm sure thieves would appreciate it," he mutters as he walks to the window to close it, and then goes to pour himself a glass of bourbon.

He lets himself fall sitting on the sofa and massages his temples.

She observes him quietly, and then sits on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

_No one can understand me  
Like you can understand  
No one can fill your shadow  
'Cause you are all I am_

He's looking at the empty bottom of his glass when she asks, "What are you doing?" but she really can't tell whom she's asking that question to.

Loneliness makes people insane and she's one step away from rattling chains and wearing a sheet with two holes on the front.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he says after a moment, making her pin her eyes on him. "Aside from being _fucking angry_ at you and thinking of you at the most inopportune times, like when I'm about to get laid."

"Ew," she's disgusted, and embarrassed and a tiny bit flattered. She doesn't believe for a moment that he meant that in a sexual way, not when Elena is around, and yet it's flattering that his uncaring ways are hampered by her, the monolithic, righteous, _full of shit_ girl he says he doesn't care about.

She always loved to be a pain in the ass to him, and this hasn't changed now that she's dead. It's true what they say, some things will always stay the same.

Damon relaxes against the back of the sofa, closes his eyes resting his head, and she's left staring at his chest, and the way his Adam's apple goes up and down when he swallows.

He really is beautiful, for a centenarian murderer, but she'd rather die than admit it out loud. Well, that's not really a problem now, is it?

She reaches out her hand, her fingers trace the muscles of his pectorals in the air and she catches herself right before touching him once again.

She touched people before but nothing like that ever happened. Maybe she was channeling her powers because of the storm of emotions she felt, or maybe it was a combination of both of their powers, or maybe it was all a coincidence and he didn't feel a thing and she imagined it all. In any case, she's pretty sure she's not been given her forty days to fondle a jerk of a vampire. Not that she wants to. Only, Damon is more interesting than being bored _to death_ as the rest of the world is peacefully asleep.

As her hand is still in the air Damon speaks again. "Since you probably really know-it-all now I suppose I should apologize for the… mental picture I had before… and the other times before that."

She gasps, pulling her hand away, holding it to her chest with the other one, and stares at him – well, his Adam's apple and his chin - with eyes wide open, mouth gaping, outraged. "I can't believe you were really thinking-" she can't even complete the sentence, "You are unbelievable!"

"Are you mad?" he asks.

"What do you think?" she asks back, bewildered.

"That's good. I want you mad, and offended, wherever you are, up there, while you play arpeggios with the angels."

His tone is bittersweet. "And I want you here," he adds, his eyes shout tight, swallowing his pride, "so that I can stop thinking of you. I want to go back to not giving a fuck." His abandoned, perfect figure against the leather cushions of the sofa, under the soft glow of one lamp, reminds her of a kingdom in ruins.

"You were such a pain in the ass," he says.

"Thank you very much," she says, sarcastically.

"And pretty, among other things," he seems to dwell on this admission, "I never bothered to tell you but I suppose you know that too, from where you are, don't you?"

She's not going to reply _I'm here, I'm always here_, not to him, but the words are there on her tongue, heavy and bitter, and she must bite herself to hold them back.

And yet there's something tender about this fucked up confession. She never knew he thought of her as pretty. She never knew he thought of her as a member of the female gender, really, and now he's open and brutally honest and she feels a bit like she's spying on a private moment. It's funny, because his private moment is with her and yet not.

"I know now," she tells him, unable to leave, addicted to his stream of consciousness, attracted like a moth to the flame. Burning was always scary but, right now, when the world is lost to her and the boy she died for sleeps and dreams of his future without her, not burning is _terrifying_.

He raises his head looking ahead – looking at her – "I'm telling you, you'll get bored out of your mind with all the singing and praising, and you'll regret me."

"Not a chance," she replies, rolling her eyes. But lowering her eyes, she swallows a doubt.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a pull in the middle of her chest and she looks down to where her hands press trying to find relief. There's a sort of call which murmurs inside of her. Bonnie tries to resist however she can but giving in seems to be the only path to take and she closes her eyes expecting to open them up to see heaven or hell.

She sees Caroline, staring at their framed picture, crying over a creased form. It takes her a moment to understand that the pain she was feeling was Caroline's call to her. Bonnie smiles sadly watching her best friend leaning over her desk, chin resting on her hands, breathing noisily and chewing on her lower lip. She saw her doing that when she was a child and she was very sad because her parents had told her that they were going to divorce. She had been lost and scared and Bonnie knew exactly how that felt.

"Caroline," Matt calls her name before she can do it herself and she watches him approach her, pulling a chair out so that he can sit next to her.

Bonnie is relieved to see him there; funny that a human boy with a gentle smile can actually put an immortal girl back together. Matt — for how underestimated can be, considering that he is surrounded by dark, exotic creatures which are the new trend of her dumb generation – is a paradigm of honor and loyalty. He never speaks ill of anyone, he is honest and yet tactful, and he endured every loss and every wound with nothing but grace and dignity. She is proud Matt was her friend.

He holds one of Caroline's hands with him and uses the other to gently turn her face, taking her chin between two fingers. She does her best to stop crying.

"I miss her, too," and it's not set phrases, for his voice cracks on the _h_. But through the pain he smiles at his friend.

"We were supposed to decorate our room at the dorm," she explains. It's a weak motivation to torture her lower lip and cry to dehydration but Bonnie knows what she means, as Matt does. Pain makes you incoherent; the stupid little things you can usually overlook become dark holes that swallow you whole.

"I still have her lace top because I forgot to give it back to her," she adds. "Actually I didn't forget. I was hoping she would let me have it. She always let me have all I wanted," and that's when her tears come rolling back on her pale cheeks, and the only thing left to do for Matt is hold her tight. He's got his own troubles trying to not sob, but his eyes are red and his eyelids look heavy, like he hasn't had a proper night's of rest in days.

Bonnie feels so sorry that she wants for her time to be over already, and yet she cannot stop looking at them, cannot help but be there, trying to bear a little of that pain with them.

"That's because she loved you."

"Then why did she leave?" she asks in a sudden rush of rage, pushing him away and standing so fast that the chair falls back down. "She shouldn't have done what she did. She left me alone. She thought of Jeremy but she didn't think of me for one second!"

"You know that's not true," Matt replies, taking the pain of her shove with barely a flinch; he knows she's too out of control to realize she can actually hurt him.

"Do I?" She asks again, her fists at her sides, her whole form trembling from head to toe. "She showed up for our graduation and didn't even have the decency to tell me she was _dead_. I spent my time doing shopping instead of crying for my dead best friend, and I can't ask her which color she prefers for the walls of our room and I never got to tell her goodbye and now I can never see her again!"

The tension of her rage which kept her steady on her legs begins to shake her until she crumbles down, falling in Matts arms, which catch her promptly.

"It's not fair," she says sobbing. Matt can't say a word, because he's crying, too, silently, as he strokes her blonde hair.

Bonnie stands in a corner, watching the scene with thin horror for what she did. Was it really her place to make that call? She overstepped God's will, manipulated the Veil like it was her right to choose anyone's fate. She brought back so many people, so many _things, _whose time was over. She ignored her Gram's plea, to whom she had looked up to all her life. She screwed the world's balance. She screwed Caroline.

"I'm so sorry, Caro," she says, crying freely for the first time. Damon was right to mock her actions, because there's a thin line which separates rightness from pride and she fears she has crossed it. She fears she befriended and fed the greatest sin, the one that originated all others.

Strange the things you think of when you're looking at your crushed best friend as you realize you did the wrong thing. Bonnie remembers a literature class, and Mr. Diadori in his green waistcoat telling them of the ninth Circle of Dante's Inferno, where he meets Nimrod, the legendary hunter of the Bible who built the tower of Babel, his face the size of the bronze pine cone from St. Peter's Cathedral in Rome and his language just a pathetic, unintelligible gibberish.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats, rushing to her friends to hold them both against her. The feeling that runs through her is the comfort of a slow rocking, like their hearts are being lulled, and every wrong doing is forgiven, and every twisted action is straightened, and every scar is healed.

Caroline calms down instantly, and so does Matt. They don't say aloud they felt her presence, scared that the words will take her away, indefinitely.

#

It's like being inside a washing machine, slammed around and cleaned of every bad emotion one by one. It's as unpleasant as it feels and she's a bit dizzy as she falls on the sofa in the Salvatore boarding house as her own name resounds in her head.

"Ouch, can you please keep it down?" she asks Elena, taking her head in her hands. It's a bit like having a hangover, but without the fun part of the actual drinking.

"He needed to do it for himself," she tells Damon as his mocking face smiles sarcastically.

"Of course, in case you didn't notice, up to now everything that is been done, is been done for him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, tensing. Bonnie is confused by this whole scene, because if she's been called there, they must have been talking about her. Isn't this how it's supposed to work?

"You know exactly what it's supposed to mean," he tells her, "playing the ignorant girl gets old soon," he adds, taking a sip of his drink. Lately, he drinks a lot, Bonnie thinks.

"Her death is not Jeremy's fault, and you should stop treating him like it is!" she says, vehemently, her perfect straight hair moving as they frame her face, "Bonnie made her choice."

"The _wrong_ one!" he says exasperated.

"It's still her choice!"

"You keep telling yourself that," he spits, "She fucked up big time for a dumb kid that dumped her for a ghost-"

"Anna is in the past-"

"Well, now Bonnie is in the past too!" he says, angrily. She's right in the middle between them, in more ways than one and she wishes she could be anywhere else. She can feel her father's call and yet their rage and guilt and accusations are stronger and won't let her move.

"Great," she mutters to herself.

"We didn't stop loving her just because she's dead and you are only making things w-"

"Can you _please_ cut the crap?" Elena's eyes go wide, as Bonnie's – she's not used to seeing him treat her friend like that. "She will always be in our hearts, let's go and have a pizza," he says, with a mocking tone.

"What do you want from us?" Elena yells at him.

"I want you to say the goddamn truth! I can be a bastard but at least I don't hide my dirt under the carpet. She didn't make that decision alone. The whole town pushed her to make it!"

"I chose to do it," Bonnie says, hoping he'll get the message somehow.

"The whole town had no idea what she was doing, we would have never-"

"Really?" he asks, his pupils so dilated that Bonnie can't see the blue anymore. "You would have never passed up on the opportunity to have Jeremy back; and I know that because I would have never passed up on the opportunity to have Stefan back if our roles were reversed, but at least I'd have the spine to admit that I sent my friend to the slaughterhouse."

"No one asked her to do anything that would kill her. She was my best friend."

"She was that, but were you _her_ best friend?" he asks her.

"What?" Elena and Bonnie both ask at the same time.

"Let's not fool ourselves, shall we?" he asks, tired. "I knew which buttons to push with her. I could say your name or Jeremy's or vampire Barbie's and she would come running to the rescue," he says, his voice mimicking a cartoon's voiceover, "because you were her family. And you know what her family did? They abandoned her, or died, or just didn't care, and she tried to _earn_ the love she wanted, and it was _never-fucking-enough_. How many times did you ask her how she felt and actually stopped to listen to her? What did you do for her exactly? And Jeremy dumped her for a ghost," he laughs bitterly, "which is a record. She is outstanding, I have to admit," he adds mocking her. Bonnie is so powerless against his brutal honesty that she must lower her head to hide her shame.

"How can you be so cruel?" Elena asks, crying, "Why are you hurting me like this?"

Damon grimaces, failing to see the connection in her reasoning. "I'm not trying to hurt you," he says, "I love you. I've tossed away everyone's life for yours and I'm probably not even done yet," he considers, sounding like a crazy man. "This is not about _you_," he spells, like he's speaking to a stubborn child, "I just know how it is to _try and try_ to deserve something that you can never get. Her problem was that she was at the very bottom of her own list of important people. On the contrary, I am alive because I am on top of that list. As you are on top of yours," he says, with a shrug. "It's how it's supposed to be, really. It's called self-preservation, and Judgy didn't have any. That's how it is. I'm not being mean or cruel; I'm calling 'em as I see 'em. It's not like I've ever given a crap about her, so I'm not talking out of anger or some other pesky emotion."

"You _did_ care," she says, calmly. Her tears already dry on her cheeks.

"See? That's your problem. You see good where there isn't," he says, grimacing, only standing up to go and refill his by now empty glass.

The silence in the room is suddenly disturbing. Bonnie feels like she's on the point of throwing up –well, that if she had actually a working stomach, instead of an imaginary one.

She doesn't feel like hugging them. Instead, she feels _a lot_ like kicking Damon's ass to the afterlife. Yet staring at Elena she sees his words sinking in and she can't stand it.

"It's not your fault, or Jeremy's or anyone," she says. "When was Damon _ever_ right?" she asks, exasperated. "I felt loved by every one of you, I really did," she explains, pushing back in her memories the missed parties, the lonely nights, the excuses Caroline made up when Elena was too absorbed in her love life drama. And yet, she was there when her Grams passed away. And when they were nine they had sworn to never leave each other side. Only, it's been so long since she felt her close. So much so that, tragically, it doesn't make a big difference to her to not be able to touch or communicate with her.

Ironically, the last time they spent a reasonable measure of time together was when Elena tried to kill her.

Bonnie blinks, swallowing every word that came out of Damon's mouth, every doubt flowing out from her heart.

She's always been so sure about her prerogatives. Her certainties were so unswerving. She based on them every step, every choice, until she came to this. Being a spirit in the Salvatore's living room.

_I can't control my feelings  
I can't control my thoughts_

And being pulled away from Damon when he abandons the empty bottle on the cart and leaves the house because, "I've run out of bourbon."

The strength with which he holds on to the thought of her leaves her no choice but to follow him.

Bonnie must walk fast to keep his step, and he's not even using his vampire speed. His long legs eat the distance in a way she couldn't, even when she was alive.

"What the hell!" she protests, "Slow down, you can't be exactly thirsty after all that you drank. If you don't consider, of course, that prattling like that has probably dried your mouth," yet, was he really lying?

_I'm staring at the ceiling  
Wondering how I got so caught_

She wants to think he got too caught up in his own crap and he confused his life with her own. Even so, she cannot just forget his words.

He growls and then slows down, pushing his fists into the pockets of his black jeans.

Bonnie doesn't know what to expect from him, so she stays quietly by him. They walk together, side by side but two feet apart, passing through the public park, ignoring the sign that orders them to not step on flowerbed.

"Punk," she insults him with no passion, turning her eyes on him as she steps on a yellow flower.

He turns his eyes too, like he's peeking at her.

"Sometimes I think you see me and you play it cool so that you can fool me," she says, holding her arms around herself like she's cold.

"I stalked Stefan under the shower, he's better equipped then you are," she says, to test her theory. Damon doesn't flinch and keeps on walking. The moon is so big that she can't help but admire it, and she doesn't see him peeking in her direction again.

_You're completely off limits  
For more reasons than just one  
But I can't stop_

If her time was coming to an end she would be able to turn around and see the past, and turn again and see the future, and look at him and see his unbeating heart. But her time is not coming to an end, just yet. And she doesn't see herself in his eyes, as he imagines her there walking next to him, side by side but two feet apart, passing through the public park, ignoring the sign the orders them to not step on the flowerbed.

_So I'll remain  
Within your reign  
Until my thoughts can travel somewhere new  
My mind is blind to everything but you  
And I wonder if you wonder about me too._

_###_

Note: The song I used in this chapter is "Wonder" by Lauren Aquilina.


	4. Chapter 4

Some people walk inside a room like they own the place. Damon is different. Damon walks – everywhere – like he owns the _world_, like any life that passes him by is inevitably linked to his fingers – one snap and it's over.

A tiny part of her is aware that he is unstable since she's gone. It feels quite like arrogance on her part, to think that her absence could make him unbalanced, and yet so many details tell her otherwise.

He walks to the bar ignoring the blatant staring of a pair of girls playing pool – shouldn't they be tucked into bed holding their stuffed bunnies right now? – and the more subtle ones of a few older women around.

Bonnie grimaces, turning her eyes from such a sick display, crossing her arms under her breasts. The latest generation suffers from an obvious lack of good taste.

Damon sits on a stool and orders a drink, she can only stand there and look around herself. The two girls at the pool table are obviously talking about him as one of them stares at the part of his body that is placed on the stool, like she's about to cry.

"Seriously?" she asks, looking at them with a curved eyebrow. They've got no shame.

She knows they can't see her and that she's not exactly there with him but it doesn't stop her from feeling _offended _at being ignored. They would probably do the same even if she were alive and by his side.

Moreover, it's not trouble they're flirting with, but more like a _titanic disaster._ Her discontent with the situation is fully justified, and her mood doesn't diminish the pertinence of her first reaction.

Bonnie leans against the stool, but doesn't sit down, looking around the room unsure about who she is protecting and from whom. There is a love song playing in the background.

A girl sitting at the table in the corner is blowing a candle on top of a heart-shaped cake while her boyfriend looks at her and it distracts her. She would have wanted that too, but the only candles she saw everyday were the ones she needed for her spells. Nothing romantic there, or worth being remembered, really. Ironically she once thought that being a witch was everything, but now it's the very last thing she misses of her life.

Bonnie moves when a man attempts to sit down but Damon slaps his hand on the stool, without moving his eyes from the bottom of the glass.

"This seat is taken," he almost growls.

The other man for a moment contemplates about protesting because he's obviously alone but gives up as soon as Damon looks at him through the mirror. The guy raises his hands in surrender and takes a step back, making Bonnie sigh with relief.

"Psycho," she accuses him, sitting on the stool next to his, "there's no one here," she adds looking in front of her. Her image is reflected in the mirror, and she stares morbidly fascinated as Damon looks at his side, where she is.

She's sitting at the bar, between other people_, living_people, and through the mirror she can be part of that again, even if only for a minute or two.

From the reflection she can see one of the girls at the pool straightening her miniskirt and breathing in to master the courage to approach the sexy boy-slash-murderous vampire at the bar and Bonnie says goodbye to her break of human normalcy with more than a hint of irritation.

She gets up from her seat, walks towards her, stops to wait for her to pass by and then puts her foot in front of her making her trip over a freckled boy who's drinking a coke with a friend.

"I just did you a favor, he's more your type," she explains, doing her best to sound rational and detached, "See?" she asks as the boy helps her up, "You're welcome by the way," she adds going back to _her place_ on the stool.

Bonnie sighs, trying to feel better about what she just did by reminding herself she probably just saved the girl's life. Damon has barely bothered to turn his eyes to admire the ungraceful fall. Who knows what's going through that oxygen deprived brain of his?

"You are nothing but trouble," she accuses him, but he doesn't answer. She wishes he would.

"Hey man," Damon calls the bartender on the other end of the counter, "the bottle."

The young boy has a look of recognition on his face, like he knows the expression Damon is wearing, like he saw it many time before and is conscious to have no arguments against _that_. He takes the bottle from a shelf at his back and pushes it towards him, making it slide on the smooth surface of varnished wood.

Bonnie reaches out stopping the bottle with her hand before it can arrive in front of Damon, "I have no intention of babysitting a drunk vampire," she protests, ignoring his inquiring eyes, "So, now, get your ass off th-"

When he takes the bottle she's still holding it and for a moment she opposes a brief, weak resistance. Bonnie freezes, unsure about his lucidity and the meaning he gave to what just happened.

"Damon…"

He holds his jaw so tight that she can see a nerve pulling, then he slips one hand inside his pocket, slaps a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and leaves in a rush, taking the bottle with him.

That's how she ended up following Damon, as he wanders around the town. She has the sensation that she can hear the rusty wheels in his head turning.

"I think you've had enough," she says, as she walks next to him. Again, he doesn't answer her, but even if she can still feel the pull of his thoughts she can see his mind shift.

His eyes stare somewhere in the distance and she catches the sight of a silhouette. He's fast in following her and she does the same.

"Don't," she tells him, "You can't."

But Damon is so very concentrated on her, a petite brunette with dark skin and big dark eyes.

"I swear to you, Damon, if you make one move to drink from her I'm going to possess the first person that comes along and fry your dead ass!" she idly threatens, only disturbing a cat sleeping behind a fence, which runs away at the sight of her. She's momentarily distracted, finding out that animals – or, at least, cats – can actually see her and she loses sight of him.

"Damn," she mumbles, letting his thoughts bring her back to him.

"Here you are," she sighs with relief, as the unaware girl keeps on walking, now in his direction.

"Why don't you go home, Damon? Elena is waiting for you."

He doesn't listen to her, but just when he's about to appear in front of the girl's eyes he seem to change his mind and goes back on his steps.

"Your mood swings are getting worse," she says, as he walks through the park and sits on a swing, "Are you pregnant?" she asks, "cause in that case you shouldn't drink, you know."

Getting only silence, Bonnie shrugs, and imitates him, sitting on the swing next to his.

"I feel like Dawson fucking Leery," he suddenly says, taking a sip of alcohol.

The comment makes her choke. He's always been good with pop references, hasn't he?

"_Please_," she grimaces at his insinuation, "I loved him," she explains, "And he was never an alcoholic, even if I really don't know how he could stand his own life sometimes. Some ass of a best friend he had."

Dawson was the best friend with the big heart, always getting the shortest end of the stick when it came to love. That _does_ ring a bell, come to think about it.

"Why do I feel like you're not really gone?" he asks, looking around himself, leaving her speechless for a moment.

"Maybe because I am not," she says, hopeful, "Or maybe because it didn't settle in, yet. I mean, I am the dead one, and it didn't settle in with me either."

"But if you were around you would let me know, right?"

Only silence answers him because Bonnie doesn't know. Would she? She's doing her best to let go, but he of all people won't let her. And it is so tempting the thought of coming back and starting over.

And now it comes up that she can touch, even if it just _happens_.

"I mean, isn't it petty that you won't speak to me just because we weren't the best of friends and I tried to kill you a few times?" he asks, shrugging.

Damon doesn't try to make peace with her absence; he bites at it hoping that something will bleed out of nothing. It is a fascinating sight, one she's getting addicted to, but it's not like it can hurt her, can it?

"Let's be clear on this," he suddenly says, "It's not that I miss you, because I don't-"

Bonnie looks at him amused, because now she knows better, even if he swears otherwise.

"I just think…you shouldn't be dead. Not _this _much, anyway,"

"Yeah, because _I'm dying_ to be a vampire," she replies.

"I know you're from a snob lineage and all, but you really can't complain that much, you know. No wrinkles, no rheumatisms, and you always have the best vintage pieces in your closet."

"Well, when you put it this way…" she amuses him, nodding. The idea, after all, when you're dead and buried, doesn't sound so displeasing.

"It's getting interesting, isn't it?" he asks taking another sip.

Bonnie shakes her head, wondering how much more he wants to drink.

"What's so good about being a witch, anyway?" he asks, "Like you ever needed an excuse to put your life on the line."

"Like you weren't always the one asking me to."

He doesn't say anything, and drinks again.

"Can you stop?" but he just takes another gulp of it, "And a _witch_ is what I am. Was. Whatever. I can't just _stop_."

"It's not like everything you were was a bunch of abracadabra. But you liked, very much, to reduce yourself to that. I never knew why," he ponders, taking another sip.

"You should have learned how to live," he considers with a low tone, "And how to pick your dates," he adds, with a more angry voice, "baby-Gilbert, pff" he mocks, "He did nothing for you."

"That's not true!" she protests, her eyes wide in outrage, "You don't know how much-"

"The hell he loved you," he says, his voice growing louder by instinct, "Where is he now instead of trying to bring you back? He's in fucking Denver! He cries five minutes then he goes and packs his bag, like he can leave you behind putting a few miles at his back. That's love?" he asks, grimacing, "I call that bullshit!" and then he unceremoniously empties his bottle.

She wants to say that he's wrong, that he's sick and he can't understand a pure heart like Jeremy, but then again, she herself put her life on the line for him, and he went away. He doesn't even think of her long enough for her to find him, for her to go to him.

Maybe he's only trying to avoid her memory, shield himself from the pain of losing her, but that's all they have left and now they don't even have that anymore.

_Well I don't know how and I don't know why  
When something's living well you can't say die  
You feel like laughing but you start to cry  
I don't know how and I don't know why_

"You have shitty taste in men, judgy," he says, standing to throw the empty bottle into the trash, like he's playing basketball. The bottle impacts against the inside of the bin and breaks into pieces.

"I know how that feels," he mutters to himself, so low that she's not sure she heard it right.

Damon turns around watching the swing where she's sitting and she can't even blink. Every time he does this, she feels a bit at his mercy, waiting for him to discard the thought of her forever or bring her back with a single word.

"Amuse me," he tells her, "Show me that you're still here, move the fucking swing," he asks her, his teeth gritting together as he stares at the immobile swing.

Bonnie gasps, searching for something to say.

"Com'on, witchy," he mutters, the pull of his call tightening her heart.

Bonnie holds the chains and tries to push with her feet on the grass. She struggles and grimaces because of the effort and yet the damn thing won't do as she wants.

"I can't," she laments, looking in his direction, watching his bitter smile as he mocks himself for thinking she was with him.

"That was stupid of me," he says, faking a light tone, "Of all the people you could be with, I'm not even the last one, am I?" he asks her, even if he just said aloud he doesn't believe her to be there.

_I don't have many and I don't have much  
In fact I don't have any but I got enough  
Cause I know those eyes and I know that touch  
I don't have many and I don't have much_

"Damon…"

He slips his fists inside the pockets of his black jeans and turns around to leave.

"Damon, wait!" in her panic Bonnie pushes down on her feet and launches herself at him, reaching out to try and grip his leather jacket. The pull of her hold is not enough to stop him, but it makes him lose balance enough to force him to take a step backwards though.

As he stands there, trying to rationalize what has just happened he hears the light sound of the swing chains as it slightly moves. Damon slowly turns around as Bonnie looks at him breathless, with teary eyes. They're so close that if she could feel at all, she'd feel his breath. And for just a short moment, that's all she desires.

_but oh darling my heart's on fire  
Oh darling my heart's on fire_

He is completely still, with his eyes on the swing, and she can feel the silence crushing her.

"I'm here!" she screams in his face, as one tear rolls down her cheek.

His only reaction is to blink.

"Don't play with me, Bonnie," he says, wary, "Don't play with me."

_Oh darling my heart's on fire  
For you_

#

**Note:** The song I used in this chapter is "Heart's on fire" by Passenger feat. Ed Sheeran.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm not playing with you," her voice trembles, sounding like the squeaking of the rusty chains of the swing moving at her back. Damon is completely still, only his eyes move, anxious to catch a glimpse of her, in spots where she is not, for she is a lot closer.

She can see him swallow and reaches out to touch his cheek. She can't feel him under her fingers, and he can't either.

"The other day… it was you, wasn't it? And before, at the bar…" he says, waiting for an answer that doesn't come.

"Answer me!" he screams, making her jump back. He seems to regret his tone as soon as he spoke, turning his head to the side, gasping for something to say.

"What good it is if I answer you? Why should we keep on having these stupid one sided conversation that make me feel like I'm still part of this life?" she asks, her cheeks wet with new tears. "I'm going crazy," she laments, looking down, holding back a whimper. "And you… are making it so hard to let go," and when she raises her eyes she finds her hands gripping the neck of his leather jacket.

Bonnie is too tired to be strong, to fight her loneliness and regrets - to fight him – so she closes her eyes and rests her forehead against the base of his neck. She does not worry about wetting his shirt, not seeing one drop enlarging on the black fabric.

"It's okay," he murmurs suddenly, stopping her tears with an unexpected gentleness that makes her look up, "We- we can fix this," he says nodding, like he's trying to convince someone. If her or himself, Bonnie can't tell.

He lowers his head, exhausted, and their cheeks are almost pressed against each other. The feel of it so absent, it tears at her.

And before he can become aware the coldness of his wet shirt or guess it's cause, it starts raining hard.

#

Damon wipes his feet on the doormat, listening to the regular, infelicitous ticking of the pendulum clock. He moves slowly in his drenched clothes, which make a funny sound with each movement, and from the distant look in his eyes as he walks up the stairs she knows he's miles away.

He looks tired and his pull is very weak, she could go away from him right this moment. She could go to her father, talk to him and give him another taste of peace. She could go to Caroline, or Matt; she could Stefan, make sure he's alright. She could find Jeremy and speak to him, have him look at her in the eyes and tell her how much he missed her.

She stays with Damon.

She follows him, intently, as he opens the door of his bedroom to find Elena brushing her hair on the bed they share.

He offers her a tired smile as she looks at him with her big doe eyes.

"Are you alright?" she asks, standing and abandoning her hairbrush on the mattress. When she reaches out to cup his cheek he wraps his hand around her wrist, stopping her.

"I'm fine," he reassures her, with another tired smile, "Just caught in the rain. I need a warm shower."

He pulls her to kiss her quickly on the lips, releasing her immediately to walk toward the bathroom.

Bonnie is relived to be spared the show. She doesn't like this Elena, and she likes, even less, Damon when he's with her.

"About before," Elena says, making him turn, "I-"

"Forget it," he just says, watching a smile grow bigger on her pretty face. It is a distressing spectacle to see, and he can feel a cold shiver running along his spine, which has nothing to do with the rain.

"Do you want company?" she asks, titling her head to the side and starting to make her way to him with a flirty smile. One spaghetti strap of her camisole falls down along her shoulder, with a calculated, suggestive movement masked as shyness.

"Why don't you wait for me in bed?" he asks her, instead, mirroring her expression. "Sleep," he says, "Rest, so that I can wear you out later."

He doesn't wait for a reply as he enters the bathroom and Bonnie is left watching Elena giggling at the idea of spending another night with a hot-blooded Damon. It breaks her heart just a little bit to see the person for which she gave up her future being so fast at moving on from her loss. She doesn't want to see her consumed with pain, the way it happened with Jeremy's death, but can't everyone just miss her a little bit?

She misses them all.

Bonnie watches her slip under the covers and she goes to Damon. The bathroom is filling with steam and from the etched glass of the shower stall she can see his body as he stands still under the water jet. The door of the shower stall is open but she doesn't dare to move from her safe position.

"You need to rest, too," she informs him, uselessly, "And I need to take a break from all-"

She can both feel the pull of his thoughts and the wound of the growling coming from the back of his throat. Bonnie blinks, suddenly uneasy and nervous.

"What are you doing?" she asks, wary as her eyes grow bigger, "You're not-" she gasps, "I don't like you thinking of me while you're under the shower," she says, her voice faltering.

Something in him has been so moving in the last minutes, so much that she has willingly decided to not leave his side - until she hadn't seen him flirting with Elena - and now he's thinking of her under the shower. She should have known better than to count on him having some sense.

The room keeps on filling with steam and she can barely make out his outline from where she stands, so she gets closer, peaking at him from the open door of the shower stall, carefully avoiding looking down.

"Damon, I swear to God, if you even think-" she's ready to threaten him with the most painful tortures that comes to mind when she sees his white-marble skin turning bright red, burned by the high temperature of the water, which is practically boiling.

He's got his right hand on the shower tab but he's so concentrated on her that he can't be shaken out of his state, not even by the pain he's unconsciously inflicting himself.

Bonnie can see blisters ready to bloom all over his, once immaculate, skin. A moan of pain escapes her, and she feels herself trembling.

"What are you doing?" she asks, unable to understand what brought him to this point, "You're hurting yourself."

His unblinking eyes are fixed on an undefined spot at his feet and he cannot hear her.

"Damon, stop," she says, panic flowing through her. "Do you hear me? I said stop," she urges him, "Turn off the water now, Damon. _Stop!_"

At the peak of her terror the shower head comes off, jumping over his head - because of the force of the water jet - hitting the stall's wall and crashing to the ground. The harder, thicker flow of the water slaps his face, bringing him back to reality.

Damon rushes to turn off the water, grimacing as he moves and tries to wrap himself in a towel. The soft fabric is too harsh on his burned skin and he can barely stand still, so he lets it pool around his feet and takes an old razor from the cabinet. He's forced to let it go and it falls against the white ceramic.

"How can you be so stupid? Huh?" Bonnie can feel her eyes wet and the ghost of a panicked heartbeat running wild in the middle of her chest, like fear could actually bring her back to life for a moment. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Fear is the most human emotion of all, she thinks in that moment.

_Hear your heartbeat  
Beat a frantic pace  
And it's not even seven AM_

"Fuck," he mutters, gripping his hands on the washbasin to keep himself up and feel some coolness against his palms. He rubs the mirror with one hand to clean it from the veil of vaport that covers it and see his reflected image. His face is hardly recognizable, only his blue eyes – under swollen broken lids – are the same.

_You're feeling the rush of anguish settling  
You cannot help showing them in_

"I think I need my beauty sleep," he comments, sarcastically.

"I think you need psychopharmacological drugs!" she replies back, angry like she hasn't been in a while, watching the state of the skin on his neck and arms.

Bonnie abruptly jerks her head away when she sees him cutting the first blister with the razor, and it takes all of her strength to turn to watch him again. She knows he will heal faster if he does this but she can hardly bear the sight.

_Hurry up then  
Or you'll fall behind and  
They will take control of you_

The only support she can offer is being there and watch him cut one after one the blisters on his arms, on his chest, and when he starts with his face she tries to remind herself that he is a vampire, and he's going to be fine by the morning, but she can feel a cold shiver every time he cuts himself so mercilessly.

With considerable effort he manages to leave the bathroom and go back to the room where Elena is peacefully sleeping.

He goes down on one knee, and searches a cabinet looking for something. He breaths in relief finding a bottle of blood, but when he stands again – making her turn as she realizes he's still naked – he doesn't drink, instead he goes through a drawer to find and wear a pair of pajama pants.

"In case I'm offending your delicate sensibilities," he mutters, making her turn her eyes in his direction, "You're here, aren't you? I'm not just imagining things, right?" he asks, taking his time before drinking the blood.

He wipes his mouth with his hand, hurting both his mouth and his palm.

_And you need to heal the hurt behind your eyes  
Fickle words crowding your mind_

"You're not," she amuses him, even if he won't hear her. Even if what he really deserves right now is to be kicked in the ass and then some.

Bonnie follows him as he walks slowly to the bed and lays down, trying his best not to wake Elena. There's only one light on, on his side of the king size bed. It is actually so big that Bonnie can sit on it.

"Thank God I'm not alive," she jokes, trying to lighten the weight on her heart, "I don't want to think of the wide variety of venereal diseases I could catch by just sitting here."

She did what she could to protect her friends, she denied herself the comfort of Jeremy's ability to speak to her just to shelter him from pain, and it turns out that the one person unable to take it is the same one who always swore to anyone willing to listen that he didn't give a damn about her.

His blue, blue eyes are only half open because of the swelling of his lids and she lays down next to him to stare at them. They are still as beautiful as ever, even when his face is disfigured.

_So  
Sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in  
Like waves of sweet fire, you're safe within  
Sleep, sweetie, let your floods come rushing in  
And carry you over to a new morning_

They lay on their sides, facing each other, and she puts one hand under her face, on the pillow, like she used to when she could sleep, and _wake up_.

"I'm fine," she murmurs, "It's okay if you let me go," she says, thinking of the moment when she won't be around anymore to save him from his self-destruction tendencies. Thinking of the moment when this feeling – whatever it is – will be too much and he will take it out on anyone that crosses his path.

She sees him move, slipping his hand over the sheet and stop where her projection lay. Even now he's looking for her, and she cries again.

"Don't be stubborn," she says, trying to steady her broken voice. "We hate each other, remember?" she asks, trying to laugh but only managing to chock bitterly. "You _fucking_ hate me," she insists, recalling the exact words he said in front of her headstone. "I'm full of shit and you want me out of your head," but the more she tries to make him let go, the more she cries, and she presses the back of her hand against her mouth to keep herself from moaning out of pain.

"I think death is messing with my emotions," she says, trying to find a defense for her tears, for her desire to stay there, for this bond she can now _feel _like she could never feel anything in her life, "And you were always messed up in the first place."

Bonnie sees an arm wrapping around his waist and remembers Elena, on the other side of the bed. It's a shake that makes her feel ridiculous and silly.

She was so desperate for something that she put herself in a bed with a couple of lovers. Not only is she inconsistent, she's pathetic too.

Bonnie is finally ready to leave them alone, for good, but Damon stops her.

He sounds distant and tired, but he still begs, "Don't go."

His breathless voice keeps her there, chained to him as he closes his eyes. She sighs, surrendering to his simple request with just an "Okay."

Maybe, just for tonight, she can give in; she can be there for him. Maybe she will be able to give him some peace, the way she did with her father, by talking to him as he sleeps, so that her voice will easily overstep the boundaries of consciousness and reach the bottom of his soul.

She ignores Elena, who pushes herself against his warm, burned skin, reassuring him, "I'm not going anywhere."

His hand is still next to her, and it hangs on to the sheet like he could keep her from fading with only his bare hands.

#

**Note: **The song I used in this chapter is "Sleep, sugar" by Poets of the Fall.


	6. Chapter 6

It's quite fascinating to her eyes to watch his body healing-the red marking the skin losing their dark color to go back to a fair, transparent complexion, the cut blisters being absorbed back, the wounds closing themselves like the mouth of a carnivorous flower. Damon lays there, right next to her, immobile, his chest does not rise, nor fall and her instinct is to reach out and place her hand above it, where his heart should beat.

The inability to feel the contact shatters the quietness she was experiencing and her light smile falls. She used all her breath to spell for him, in as many ways she could conceive, how desperately she wanted him to stay away from her, and now she is as desperately wishing the opposite as she could never imagine.

Where she could only see selfishness, now she finds his strength. His body, his whole being – _Damon_ – for all his faults, is stubbornly refusing to die. Even if in his sleeps he is still and limp, everything about him holds on to life, sucking it out of thin air, and even if she always doubted his ways to live, now more than ever she admires his determination in surviving each century that arrogantly approaches.

Every day he resists death with the same resolution she used to chase it; like life was just a thing to throw away, a pair of boots from the past season, something you can replace. Now life has replaced her, and she can't argue with that, for her voice has no sound and her will no substance. If only it could be the same for her feelings, she would not find herself so helpless.

_I will send you out a message_  
_ I will telephone a love song_  
_ I'll collect all of your stories_  
_ I haven't seen you for so long_

Desperation makes her breathless – never mind the fact that she stopped breathing a long time ago – clouding her mind, and even if she's supposed to let him go, _now_, her fingers try and grip him. Her nails and fingertips don't disappear inside his flesh, swallowed in his body, instead they suddenly press against his white skin and she can feel his heartbeat – so slow that it hardly beat at all – and his long lashes flutter. She can see his eyes moving under the eyelids and his hand reaches up to press against his chest. Like he's keeping her hand there, above his own heart.

Bonnie looks away, trying to push back her tears, and pulls her hand away.

"Why are you holding on to me like this?" she asks, her voice soft and low as she watches him sleep, "This is not us," she reasons, refusing to accept, to recognize her own blindness once again. "We never liked each other, really," she tells herself, unable to understand. "Really!" she insists, "So, stop, Damon. Do you understand me?" she asks, anger building up inside of her, a reaction to her own vulnerability, to his horrible timing to let her know that he actually means something, because he can't and he doesn't.

But even when her body is buried and her soul is fading away, Damon can still get to her. He can get on nerves she's not supposed to have, boiling blood that ran dry long ago, tie her to a place she doesn't belong anymore. He's troublesome like that, and now more than ever he can so easily ignore the inconvenience of her.

Bonnie sighs, closing her eyes for a moment, wishing she could find a hiding place inside the dark, but behind her lids there are people and rooms and words hard as concrete and she must look at him again, to anchor herself to that bed, to him, and end this for good.

_Do you wonder what I'm up to?_  
_ Do I ever cross your mind ? _  
_ May we love the things we cling too_  
_ There is never enough time_

"I'm not supposed to be anything more than a glitch on your radar," she says, sobered up from her little burst of emotion, "And despite … all, in a few days I'll be just that," she explains, almost like she's reassuring herself. "You have eternity ahead of you and someone to spend it with, and it's okay if you let me go, now," and it hurts to tell him that. She has asked the same thing to all her loved ones, and it did hurt but she was ready for that. This, on the other hand, she was unprepared for; unprepared for Damon's hand, and his burned skin and the empty place he's reserved for her. "Don't you see? This is your shot at happiness, the girl you've always wanted is right next to you and chances are that she might really love you, and you are just… thinking of me."

She blinks to keep her eyes from watering up but it's useless, because, consciously or not, he's really doing that. It's the first time someone chooses to think of her before anyone else, and she wants to erase her words and beg him to hold to the thought of her a little bit more, just a little bit, so that she can feel him.

Only, she can't do that.

She wants to ask him why, of all times, he picked this to care. There were little signs along the road, short moments during the years she's known him that sparkled and disappeared just as fast, leaving her to wonder if the genuine interest she had read in his eyes was just a trick of her mind (_there's no way to increase your odds?_ And _ I'm team Bonnie on this one; _and the relief on his face because _I could actually hug you right now,_ and his smell and his arms around her, and his voice _where have you been? How did you find me?_ Which comes back now, in waves, overwhelming her.)

_I would watch as you was sleeping_  
_ To make sure you were still breathing_  
_ You live so fast without seeing_  
_ This eternal youth is fleeting_

"I didn't even ever care about you, you know," she forces herself to say, so that pride at least will tear him away from her ghost. Bitterness makes her tongue feel heavy in her mouth. "And let's admit it. It was a mutual indifference that worked just fine for both of us, so I really don't know why you should waste so much energy over my death," she can rationalize this, and she can find his weak spot and poke at them until he will want to kill her with his own hands. "Maybe we could have been friends, if you could manage to be less of an ass, or if I didn't know any better," she adds, her voice as caustic as it can be, "But we weren't. I can give you a chance in my next life, though…" she concedes, careful not to choke on her tears, "If you ask me nicely," she adds, trying to sound cheerful, "Just, let me go now. I'm dead, I'm supposed to rest in peace, but I can't rest at all because I have to save your sorry ass from auto-combustion and I'm not happy about it," she tells him, watching his immobile face. "I didn't sign up for you."

_Oh Take care of my Baby_  
_ Take care of my Baby_

She wishes he would say something, anything, like her father did. Like Matt and Jeremy did, but he doesn't even flinch.

"I know that following anyone's advice is not your forte, and that you hate when things don't go the way you want them to, but I believe you can handle it," she says, her voice has got an awkward, soft edge when she adds, "I'm team Damon on this one."

Bonnie smiles at him, before leaving his side.

_Take care of my Baby _  
_ I don't think he can do it himself_

#

He wakes up with a pair of cool lips pressed at the base of his neck and the crashing of the shower head against the stall's walls resounding in his skull.

When Elena's hand brushes over his nipples as it travels down his chest the bell ringing in his head forces his blue eyes to snap open and his hand traps her tiny wrist before it can go any lower. This is not the kind of x–rated show he'd often thought about offering to the witch's eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asks nervously as he looks around the room in the most casual manner.

"What does it seems like I'm doing?" she asks giggling, before starting to nibble on his earlobe. He blinks, grimacing, as he tries to come up with something plausible to say to interrupt her ministrations. He hasn't got laid in a while but fulfilling his sexual appetite is not high on his list. Besides, Bonnie is probably in the room and he doesn't want to drive her away.

Once she's back for good he can just lock himself up into a room with Elena and make up for all the time they lost, but until the world is back at how he likes it, he can't indulge her.

Elena and her needs will have to wait, he decides, pushing her so that she falls on her back on her side of the bed.

"Sorry, I'm already late for a thing," he says getting off the bed to pick out some clean clothes.

"What thing?" she asks, pushing herself up on her elbows and looking at him with a curved eyebrow.

"Ah, well, that's… a surprise," he manages, offering her a wide smile. He's a lot better at bullshitting when there's something that depends on it, but Elena is not a suspicious person, in fact she's pretty much clueless when it comes to anything not related to her. She's simple-minded like that and he always liked it, because from her comes no surprise.

"You were wearing pajamas?" she asks, as he throws the silk pants on the bed to slip inside his black jeans.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, "I was trying to be thoughtful of a lady's sensibilities," he explains vaguely, not looking at her in the eyes as he busies himself with buttoning his jeans.

"Well, the lady thanks you but she likes it when you're not wearing anything."

Damon turns his face to smile and wink at her, letting slip the fact that he was not referring to her.

Maybe it's not fair to deceive her like this, but he's not _exactly_ lying to her either, he'll just let her take his words the way she likes better. After all, he's looking out for her, somehow. He needs to be sure he can find a way to bring Bonnie back before he gives her any hope to hold on to, or disappointment could break her heart.

It's not that he wants to hide Bonnie's presence for a very selfish reason, like wanting to keep her to himself, because he doesn't. That would mean he cares more than he can admit, and that's clearly not the case – he thinks, turning his eyes to the side to catch a movement that will confirm that Bonnie is still there.

Everything is quiet and he slips one arm inside his shirt, anxious to be alone so that he can speak to her; he needs it, for very practical reasons. He wants to have her lash at him for all the things he's surely done wrong while she was away, just so that they can find back their dynamic, and then find a solution to this mess. To this absence made of night-rose granite and stubborn silence, bleeding inside of him from a hole he can never quite plug.

He'll be the superior one and forget she ever went away - leaving him to stare at an emptiness that screamed in his face every night and every day until they were switched and unrecognizable - because he's _that_ generous even if she'd die – _again_ – just to not admit that.

Truth is that there's no point in being the black sheep if there's no one standing up to him. And everyone else has such a lack of spine that she can't really blame him if he refuses to adjust to her departure.

And he bets she missed him. Yes, she had to, a bit – because she's all about being fair and right and how fair it would be if he was the only one to go insane over her absence? – and he's doing her a favor by refusing to sit back and let her go graciously.

"I can't wait…" Elena's voice murmuring against his ear as she slips her hands under the shirt he's buttoning "…for your surprise". It takes him by surprise, since he'd completely forgotten her presence, as his senses were trying to discern Bonnie's presence in the room.

Damon fakes a smile, turning around to press a quick kiss on her pink lips. "Me neither," he offers taking himself away from her hold.

"Why don't you spend some time with Barbie? I think she needs you, with all that's happened lately."

"I know," she says, nodding, "We need to talk about it."

"Yes, do that."

It's funny how he still can't say out loud that Bonnie has died, unless, of course, he's talking to Bonnie herself to scold her and mock her stupid decision, or if he's accusing someone for her absence. It's always _what happened_ and _you know what. _But that's not some silly way to hide from _what happened _and what that means, because with all the people he buried himself, death is pretty much a boring playmate to bully around, only it would be useless to talk about it because she's not going to stay dead.

She won't _dare_ doing such a thing, right?

He feels suddenly nervous thinking about the things she's always been capable of, how many times she dared to say 'no' to his face, just for the pure pleasure of denying him. Doubt creeps in like a worm inside a carcass, starting slowly to eat at his bones.

Elena leans against him from behind, standing on tiptoes and resting her chin on his shoulder. He can see their image in the mirror and he can't smile to it, even if he tries and curves his lips to try and fool his heart.

"You know," she says, voice so soft he thinks it's going to slip inside his body making him rot from the inside out, "Sometimes I must remind myself that she's in a better place, because when I think of her, lying in the dark, so alone, six feet under the earth, putrefying… I just can't take it," she sounds breathless and pained, but he still feels the urge to snap her neck and punish her for the image she just burned in his mind. Yet he can't move.

The worm is eating.

He shudders.

#

"It's a gift, you see. I inherited it from my grandmother. I'm from a stock of Salem's witches and so there are things I can do, despite my will. Life is a lot easier when you're not a magnet for spirits. I could have lived a better life but my duty is to serve the restless soul and help the living to find their peace," she says, her fake humbleness barely covering her haughtiness. If only it could at least cover her horrible make up.

Talking to dead people is not an excuse for afflicting the living ones with this exhibition that he prefers to blame on a form of early arthritis. Like, really, how hard can it be to draw a straight, thin line or blend a decent amount of color on her eyes?

"So you talk to the deads," he repeats.

"Yes, gorgeous," she says, attempting to flirt with a smile that puts more on display the ring on her lower lip, "I know that's hard to believe but there are more things in heaven and earth, than are in the sci-fi programs."

"Shakespeare has just revolted in his grave," he informs her, matter-of-factly, more darkly that he meant to.

"You have powers, too?" she asks, wide eyed and suspicious, looking at him with new interest. Maybe she's thinking about in front of what tree to have their pagan wedding and how to name their supernatural babies right now.

Damon closes his eyes to stop himself from killing her on the spot. She could still be useful, he reminds himself.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" he asks, offering a saccharine smile, making her respond in the same way, "Do you really speak to the deads?" but this time as he smiles, his canine elongates and his eyes become dark as black veins bloom around them.

She screams with a voice more powerful that he had guessed and he flinches at her high pitch. He sighs and waits for her to stop, counting the seconds in his head. He gets tired at eighty-four and orders her to stop screaming already.

It turns out she has no kind of power whatsoever, if one doesn't count her ability to scare men and vampires away with her heavy, Halloween-esque make up, but it's not like he would really expect for someone named Fonda Cox – which seems like it came out of the porn star name game - that sells ashtrays owl-shaped in a shop called The Magic Rod, to be a reliable ally. Or mentally stable.

In truth, he was looking for an old, blind woman that lived in the neighborhood and had developed a peculiar sensitivity after surviving brain cancer and a three-year coma. It turned out she couldn't survive 'til her ninety-eight birthday, or at least until his visit.

Just his luck.

He feels stupid enough having given a try to the living Picasso's painting, and he supposes he can't feel worse than this, so he buys an Oujia Board. Well, he was clearly wrong, he realizes as he watches the stupid thing lying on his desk.

#

Bonnie is reluctant in looking at him as she appears in his room; the words she so cruelly fed him in his sleep have been on repeat in her head and she's sure the one way for him to cut her out of his brain is to tear her away from his thoughts at once, in the same way you take away a sticking plaster, because otherwise you know it will hurt more.

Still, he doesn't look hurt at all. Maybe mildly disgusted. She can't believe it, with all the pain and effort that had cost her to say those horrible things, he looks like he didn't hear a single word.

"Didn't you hear what I told you?" she asks, "Stop thinking of me. Stop calling me."

"The things I'm doing because of you…" he mutters to himself, fists on his sides, "If you tell a soul I'm going to kill you."

She's confused until she sees the board on the desk. Bonnie can't help but laugh at the scene, until the fact that he meant for her to use it reaches her brain.

"You're kidding me!" she says, insulted.

"Com'on," he says, eyes fixed on the toy, "Do your… _thing_."

"What's my _thing_?" she asks, irritated.

"Do I need to send you an official invitation?" he says again, speaking to the board.

Bonnie crosses her arms under her breast and taps her foot on the floor. Was she really worried she had hurt his feelings? He's too stupid to have any!

"Judgy, I can feel your righteous indignation trying to burn this work of art of a body," he tells her, "But you can't do it unless you come back to life, and you can't come back to life unless you speak to me. See my point?"

"That's stupid, Damon. I will not come back either way."

"I'm giving you the opportunity to rectify your little slip, you should take it," but the planchette remains immobile and his heart sinks a bit in his stomach. "Jeremy went away to search for himself or something, he'll probably find trouble. He's a Gilbert, they are programmed for that. And Caroline barely talks. Not that I mind," he says.

"It's called mourning," she informs him.

" And Elena really misses you, she's… she's a mess."

"Oh, we're resorting to the secret weapon," she says, ironically, mocking his attempt to manipulate her into amusing him.

_Well you only need the light when it's burning low_  
_ Only miss the sun when it starts to snow_  
_ Only know you love her when you let her go_

"Elena is… very angry at you," he says, his face hardening as his eyes get restless, "And she…she keeps seeing you everywhere, imagining the things you'd do or the things you'd say if you were still alive. It's quite pathetic if you ask me, but she's always been the pathetic kind," he admits, so concentrated on putting his effort on keeping a blank expression that the rest of him is bare in front of her, "Selfish and impulsive, too," he adds, "and she wasted a lot of chances and told you a lot of things completely meaningless and untrue instead."

She walks to him, hypnotized by the tone of his voice, and the depth of blue his eyes have taken. He stares into emptiness, like he's following a path inside his mind, and she wants to follow him, wherever he's going. Even if it means dying all over again.

_Staring at the bottom of your glass_  
_ Hoping one day you'll make a dream last_  
_ But dreams come slow and they go so fast _

"It was easier then actually thinking about what you meant to her. I suppose she never considered the possibility of losing you. You were always there, always unbearably right, unavoidable one way or the other, and so she took you for granted. And she could say that she didn't give a crap about you because at the end of the day, you were still there. Only, now you're not, and she's resorting to silly methods to find a way to you..." he grins bitterly, "because you're not here now, and no one ever bothered to tell her it would have felt so… wrong."

His eyes glisten, her tears fall. It is as bizarre as horribly beautiful, for them to be like this, in a place where his mere thoughts give her weight and substance.

_You see her when you close your eyes_  
_ Maybe one day you'll understand why_  
_ Everything you touch surely dies_

"So, I think…" he swallows, trying to assume a light tone, "I think you should say something."

The planchette slides on the smooth wood surface, traveling along the chiseled word _goodbye_.

She inhales, his breath breaks. It is as bizarre as horribly beautiful, for them to be like this, in a place where the mere tip of her finger gives him everything.

_Only know you've been high when you're feeling low_  
_ Only hate the road when you're missin' home_  
_ Only know you love her when you let her go_

The planchette rests on the word _hello._

_And you let her go._

_#_

**_Note:_ **The songs I used in this chapter are "Take care of my baby" by Dum Dum Girls and "You let her go" by Passenger (which turthfully was what ispired this fanfiction, other then the complete disgust for the season 4 finale)


End file.
